"The slums. A pitiful place, often avoided or outright ignored by outsiders.

Yet for all the

scorn they receive, nothing is worse for those who live their than to have to experience life in them.

Wrack with diseases and poverty, morale is lower than low, crime a common occurrence. Even the

young aren't spared, with many children seen working long hours away rather than innocently playing,

all hopes of true childhood lost in their already adult eyes.

Kalazar was one such children. And yet, he didn’t exactly fit in with the others. if you there to

ask the other child laborers who worked with him, they would tell you that there was always

something… off about him. His cheerfuller for one, as while the other children solemnly toiled at the

factory Kalazar worked in, constantly making luxuries for the upper classes of foreigners and even

their fellow, more privileged countrymen, Kalazar could be seen happily singing nonsense to himself

as he went about his work, even into the long hours of the night. Another thing the children might

mention would be his peculiar interest. There is not much of hobbies in the slums, as such things

simply take too much time, time that is better used for survival. Yet for Kalazar it seemed to be the

opposite, for rather than focus on livng and health, he seemed to be very interested in death and

disease. When a child would show up to work sickly, for indeed even the sick must work to live,

Kalazar would often question how they felt, what affects they were feeling, and other uncomfortable

questions that made him quite hated by the other children. Yet none of which was more abhorrent than

his fascination with the dead.

When a child worker would finally drop to the floor, literally worked to death by the factory

owners, Kalazar would always be the first to volunteer to dispose of the body. Where others would

complete the task with a solemn air, one almost like mourning of the deceased, Kalazar would happlily

grab the corpse and use his strong arms to heft the body over his shoulder, happily trotting along to the

furnace. Despite his horrible reputation and several complaints by the other workers to higher ups,

Kalazar was a boy with a strong build, and did honest work, and thus he was never fired.

As the years went by and Kalazar became an adult, the dislike by his coworkers turned to hate,

and hate to fury. How dare this man be so happy in these conditions? How dare he disrespect the dead

and dying contantly with his awful hobbies, and yet be favored by the higher ups? Eventually they

decided that enough was enough, and they decided to take matters onto their own hands.
 One day while Kalazar was on his way to work, his coworkers cornered him. One of the

mpulled out a dagger, a horrifically rusted thing, and stabbed him, leaving him to die. The young man

called for help in the alley, yet no one answered his pleas

At least, no one from this mortal plane

For indeed, Kalazar had long ago caught the eye of something much more powerful and

ancient than mere factory owners. Maladius, the God of Death and Disease, had taken an interest in

this boy. This orphan who had all the reason to be depressed, yet stayed jolly. He knew the man’s

thoughts, knew he hated working in that factory as much as the others, yet he never let that affect his

happiness. His interest in death and disease was one that he shared with Maladius, and his jolliness

over such topics was something the Death god tries to inspire in his followers, yet this boy came to it

naturally. Maladius was not going to let such a peculiar man die alone in a alley, and decided to send

some “aid” to the man

While Kalazar lay dying, a sandfly came to rest upon him, and bit his flesh. Than another

came, than another still, and many more followed. Soon Kalazar was completely covered in the awful

creatures, his screams muffled by their buzzing as they pecked at his flesh. Soon his skin turned a

sickly green, his belly becoming bloated and distended, hanging looslely from his strong frame, which

only grew in stature. Finally, a strange and foreign symbol etched itself upon his temple; the mark of

Maladius.

The sandflies departed,and the heavily diseased Kalazar stood up, yet he was not in pain. Far

from it, in fact. The diseases he had always been fascinated with became one with him, and rather than

inflict pain, caused great pleasure, and a desire to catch more. Thus was the blessing of Maladius.

Kalazar pulled the dagger from his body, for indeed the men left it there, and saw that it had been

transformed into a powerful artifact of a god who he shouldn’t have known the name of, yet did. More

still, he loved Maladius, much like a child loves his father, and saught to please him

And he knew just how to do so

While the factory workers were toiling away, happy to be rid of that horrid man once in for

all, they suddenly heard familiar singing. The men and women looked at each other in shock. Surely

there was no way he could’ve survived? Yet survived he did. The door of the factory blasted open, and

there stood Kalazar, horrifically transformed into a warrior of chaos. Kalazar slaughtered the workers,
taking out his vengeance, all the while singingand cancing as he happily infected the workers and

swung his blade. Soon they all lied dead.

Yet Kalazar’s work was not finished. He had a holy mission now, a mission to his newfound

god; the only being that ever showed him kindness. He would spread diseases and rot wherever he

went, slowly gaining more favor with Maladius, until he would receive the ultimate blessing for a

servant of dark gods such as the lord of death: ascension to demonhood.